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A woman in the back row stands, but she’s not going anywhere. She’s angling her phone at the stage for a better shot of the dosage chart. Two of her friends lean their heads together, and by the looks of it they’re comparing notes. Several more women have stopped whispering altogether, and they busy themselves jotting things down.

Ghoulia doesn’t pause. If anything, she seems energized by the note-taking.

She launches into a discussion of how poisoners avoided detection in the Victorian era. Gradual dosing versus single large doses. Symptoms that mimic natural causes. Ways to make it look like an accident or illness.

“The key,” Ghoulia says, her pale eyes scanning the audience, “is patience. Poisoners who rushed were caught. Poisoners who planned, who waited, who chose their moment carefully, often got away with it entirely.” Another dark smile curves on her lips.

Clawdia took everything from me, I catch from her thoughts. Everything. And now with a little poetic justice, everything has been taken from her.

There’s no accompanying thought of and I killed her for it. Just bitterness and rage. Just the sort of long-simmering resentment that could absolutely lead to murder, but isn’t quite a confession. Here’s hoping I get one soon.

Mom’s hand spikes in the air. “What about Victorian mourning customs? How did they handle suspected poisonings?”

Ghoulia perks up, clearly delighted to have an engaged audience member who isn’t Georgie. She launches into a detailed explanation of Victorian death rituals, postmortem photography, mourning jewelry made from the deceased’s hair, and the elaborate social protocols around death and burial. Mom is eating it up, nodding along and adding her own observations about funeral practices she’s read about. A part of me wonders how concerned I need to be.

Georgie raises her hand again, and I can almost see Ghoulia flinch.

“Yes, dear?”

“What’s the most romantic poison?”

Ghoulia blinks. “Romantic?”

“Like, if you wanted to poison someone you loved. What would be the kindest way?”

Every woman in the audience turns to stare at Georgie.

Mom looks like she’s praying for the ground to open up and swallow her, and maybe Georgie too.

Ghoulia considers the question for a moment. “Cyanide. It’s very fast. Relatively painless, comparatively speaking. The victim would lose consciousness within seconds.”

It almost sounds merciful.

“Good to know,” Georgie says, nodding and making a note on her phone.

Macy takes this opportunity to stand up near the dessert table and flag everyone to attention. “The Deadly Nightshade candle pairs perfectly with tonight’s theme! It burns for forty hours—longer than most of tonight’s victims lasted! And I’m offering a festival discount!”

Three women immediately get up and head to her booth.

Ghoulia continues undeterred. “Now, the question of detection. Modern toxicology can identify most poisons. However, there are still methods of poisoning that can evade detection if the poisoner is clever enough.” She pauses for effect. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Someone giggles uncomfortably. A few other women shift in their seats.

Georgie’s hand is up again. “Have you ever poisoned anyone, toots?”

The audience gasps and giggles. Both seem to be a catching condition.

Ghoulia’s expression doesn’t alter in the least. “Only metaphorically, dear.”

Having done it once doesn’t count, she thinks to herself. That was self-defense.

I gasp.

And there it is. The smoking poison.

Ghoulia Grimm has killed before. Whether she killed Clawdia is still the question.

“Can you tell if someone’s been poisoned once they’re toes up in the morgue?” Georgie muses. “Asking for a friend.”